


Without Requite

by illegible



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Revamp, F/M, Stalking, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2593565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somebody was watching Gwen Stacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Requite

Miles Warren is a tall, thin man who always arrives at the subway just before the doors close. Even after years of practice he still has trouble keeping his balance and tries to hold on to metal bars or poles whenever he can. He avoids haircuts until people can barely believe he’s a doctor—framing his face in uneven ripples. This is less a statement of fashion and more of embarrassment. His skin is like dark parchment drenched in oil stretched over bones, and at forty-two he feels older than he is. When he speaks he recognizes the disconnects where he’ll say something inappropriate so he speaks infrequently. Involved in the construction of life, Warren instead finds himself reflecting on bodies when they no longer work—divine clockwork cut short, worn down, forcing out the soul inelegantly like a hand convulsing around a full tube of toothpaste. When you open up the living it seems less different than you’d think.

He is startled to learn when she dies from a newspaper. It doesn’t make the front page—there was an election that day. It turns out she was murdered a few hours after her last class. He didn’t know her name before, but he knew from watching her on his rides home that she was a biology major, that she had a boyfriend who was often late or absent, that she enjoyed books like _Dune_ or _Hitchhiker’s Guide_ and bounced her foot when she read. When she was feeling thoughtful, she would look at the ceiling. Her hair was dirty blond and lately she’d taken to wearing a black headband instead of a braid. She tucked her t-shirts in and would wear necklaces more often than earrings. Her eyelashes were very long.

They don’t know her killer’s real name. They say it was quick and violent and masks were involved. Maybe one even knew her, they explain with dubious authority.

Once, he had been very tired and gone more days without saying anything than usual. It was in the wake of a funeral for a colleague he barely knew—he’d looked at her and seen the sum of her parts, and the parts were lovely. Warren watched the mourners weep without a twinge of anything only to turn to himself in horror at his own reaction.

The doors closed behind him. She looked up, stood up, smiled as she met his eye and offered her seat.

He noticed her lips more than her teeth.

“Here,” she’d said, “you look like you need it more than I do.”

He’s not sure if he’d said thanks or thank you, and avoided watching her that day. They never spoke afterward.

He’s at a loss for what to do with Gwen Stacy’s name when he has it.


End file.
